Four weeks later, after a tearful goodbye with the teachers and students at the high school, we were tucked away on a lazy stretch of beach in the house that Philip had decorated with us in mind. It was spacious and vibrant with an abundance of light. There was Philip’s playful style—spotted with touches of color and texture. “I’ve gone ahead and named her Once upon a Tide, Charley.” Homes in the Keys had names, he explained. This one, he chose for me.
I shuddered to think what Mom would say as I lay across our bed. The pink velvet tufted headboard and its bright-turquoise pillows were a stark contrast to the black-and-white cowhide rug. Thrust on my back, I counted the crystals dangling from the overhead chandelier, blocking her voice from pedaling through my brain. “Why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free?”
Mom adored Philip. That didn’t mean she didn’t have her ideas about relationships and how they should proceed.
Still, our life in the Keys was blissful.
We quickly set up house and became a couple. We shared toothpaste and argued over the direction of the toilet paper roll. Every magazine article I had ever read on the subject said I should be pleased he even changed the toilet paper, which filled me with a silly pride. Philip, with all the trappings of a privileged life, helped with many of the household responsibilities. He had no qualms about wiping a dish or emptying an overflowing garbage.
Domestic life came naturally to us. We’d rise early in the mornings and enjoy a long walk. Sunny would tag along, barking at anything in sight, and the locals had grown to avoid him, despite his handsome charm. My boyfriend and my dog had learned to respect one another like an older couple. They coexisted for the sake of peace. Some mornings, we’d sit on our dock, watching the sun creep off the water, and other times we would remain in bed, watching the splendor through our glass doors. It was remarkable how rare beauty could rise and fall each day. I wished my mom were here to see it, though Philip said she was, and I believed him.
Most mornings we’d sit on the deck while he pored over the latest news, checked and rechecked his e-mail, and I breathed in the quiet mist, calculating the necessary requirements for certification in the Monroe County school system. The sound of those early mornings echoed through the ocean, hugging the rocks along the coast. Our view was the Atlantic, and the water was erratic. Some days she flattened like glass, reflecting the sky and overhead clouds, and you could see through the crystal blue to the bottom. Other days she showed her mood with choppy waves. Then there were days she was undecided. Her color darkened, and she rippled warily in no direction.
The residents, friendly and unassuming, understood the idyllic beauty of their home, while my fascination had just begun. Unlike Kansas City, there were no seasons, only varying degrees of hot. And while I would miss gathering leaves and the splash of color on the trees, I relished the new terrain. I treasured the foliage that garnished our backyard—the yellow of the ixoras, the bright-pink chenilles, the purple bromeliads—and how the sun-kissed sand sprouted sweeping coconut palms. Their branches swayed against the pale-blue sky, painters brushing their strokes along an empty canvas.
Sometimes we drove to the Ocean Reef Club, where Philip was a member, and we’d laze in the sun or flit around the lagoon. We’d rent paddleboards and eat at the Raw Bar, where Philip would get kicked out no less than every single time for being on his cell phone. The club was strict with their rules, but Philip didn’t care. He purposely walked into the dining room one night with holes in his jeans so they’d throw him out and we’d have to return to our suite and order in room service. He could be naughty, but it always ended up in our favor.
Once he chartered a boat for us to spend the day exploring the Keys and the natural habitat. Another time, we drove to Key West and toured the charming city bordered by two shores. The southernmost tip of the US was a draw for many, though I was enchanted by the flock of writers who once, or now, resided in the tropical paradise. Ernest Hemingway. Tennessee Williams. Judy Blume. Judy Blume! I was fixated on strolling past her home and running into her, tempted by the fantasy of sipping tea with her on her deck and discussing the ways in which she helped Mom raise me.
Driving back to Islamorada, Philip dropped the top of his tiny sports car, and we raced up US 1 with the wind in our hair. Bruce Springsteen was playing on the radio, and I closed my eyes and strained my neck up toward the sky. The breeze whipped against my face, and the sun warmed my cheeks. I turned to Philip—handsome, sexy Philip—driving with one hand on the wheel, going well above the speed limit, and sang the words to him. I don’t think I ever felt happier or more alive. And unafraid.
One night, we were seated at our usual table by the water at Morada Bay.
Philip was just happy to be able to go out for dinner. I was in the thick of allergy treatments that required me to eat at home several days a week on a diet of eggs or green vegetables. Brett strummed his guitar. It was Eric Clapton, because he knew Clapton was one of Philip’s favorites. He was singing along, brushing the words against my neck.
Liberty approached in a long purple frock. Tonight was a final exam of sorts. I got to eat an almond. She smiled at Philip, who stood up to kiss both her cheeks. Philip was rubbing his palms together. “I’m ready, ladies. Let’s see if the voodoo really works.”
Liberty flicked him and focused on me. “You taped the almond to your arm without a reaction?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You rubbed it against your lips?”
“Yes. No reaction.”
“All righty then,” she said. “It’s time.”
But Philip, always determined, interrupted my rippling anxiety. “Ladies, I called upon one of my doctor friends at Columbia Presbyterian, who made it clear, under no uncertain terms, that a treatment without FDA approval can’t be trusted.”
“Now, Philip?” I said. “You’re going to challenge weeks of my not eating today?”
“Don’t listen to him, Charlotte. Any reaction at this point is mind based.” She handed me the almond. “Don’t let the fear in.”
I insisted Philip hold the EpiPen and stand guard. “You can’t chicken out,” I said. “You have to save me!”
“This is a bad idea, ladies. I’ve been reading up on it. We have no idea the safety—”
“Philip, if you can’t be supportive, then at the very least shut up.” Rubbing my arm, Liberty continued. “Charlotte, relax, you’re not allergic anymore.”
With their eyes on me, I ate the almond. I waited for the tickle in my throat, the gasp of breath, but it didn’t come. Even Philip was in shock, the EpiPen hovering close by. I ate another one. And we burst into cheers.
Dinner became a celebration, and I was giddy with excitement. I could tell Philip still had his doubts about NAET, but he was willing to give Liberty partial credit. “Liberty,” he said, “you were lucky with this one, but I think her healing had something to do with my appearance in her life.” Unfazed by his reluctance to fully embrace the treatment, I basked in the glow of my hard work, making careful note of one other point: Philip was terrified the entire time. It didn’t make me happy to have scared him, but it warmed me to see how much he cared.
Later, we were alone at the same table, caressed by a warm breeze. “You look lovely tonight, Charley.”
“You’re biased.”
He said it again.
“It’s because I’m tan. And maybe I lost a few pounds.”
“It’s because you’re happy. The island air is rejuvenating.”
I felt the flush crawl up my neck. I had once believed, foolishly, that happiness was an overrated virtue. Life gave us flashes of joy, but pain endured.
That night, at the table by the shore, with Sunny pacing nearby, I stopped making excuses. He said it again: “Charley, you look beautifully happy.” I let it in. I stroked it with my fingers. It felt nice, soothing. “Thank you.” It still felt weird rolling off my tongue, but it was one of the exercises my mother had insisted from her deathbed tha
t I practice. I said it again. “Thank you.”
Philip and I, we were blissfully in love, our life sewn together with a tight seam. Happiness wasn’t overrated. It was a gift meant to be cherished and held tight.
“I’m leaving this week, Charley.” It was early March, and we’d enjoyed this blissful window of time together.
Sunny turned away from the Gulf and dropped his head on my lap. I teased him: “What are you upset about? You love having me to yourself.”
Leaving was inevitable, I understood. Philip had a business to run and countless people relying on him, but we’d been having so much fun. “Dreadful,” I said, stroking Sunny’s fur. “The two of us. How will we ever occupy our days without your handsome daddy around?”
While I’d miss him, separation could never change us. Philip and I had endured his traveling before, and we knew how to make it work.
“I was getting used to having you around, you old bloke. And I’ll always want more time with you.”
He reached across the table for my hand. “We have our whole lives together, Charley. We, my darling, have nothing but time.”
CHAPTER 15
July 2018–August 2018, Present Day
Islamorada to Miami
Due to an emergency meeting in Miami, Philip had to postpone his Monday-morning trip to Saint Louis.
I was lying on Liberty’s acupuncture table with needles in my wrists while she sang “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. She was no Zero Mostel, but she gave it her own unique flair. I hadn’t been feeling well since dinner at Morada Bay, and Liberty was treating me for the nausea when a text came in from Philip. How about Pete fetches you after work? Dinner in Miami?
Philip knew I loved our time in Miami, the rhythm and energy, and soon I was resting my head against the black leather of Pete’s SUV. My thoughts turned to Philip being seated here earlier and then dropped off at Panorama Tower, the tallest building in Miami at eighty-five floors. It was only fitting that the Stafford Group occupied the top three floors.
“Mr. Stafford has you checked into the Four Seasons,” Pete called out from the front seat. “I hope it’s a comfortable stay.”
It didn’t matter where we stayed, only that we were together. I’d packed with care, choosing the fine lace negligee he had sent for Valentine’s Day when he was in Los Angeles last year. The card had read, “Wear this tonight.” We’d FaceTimed for hours, he in some luxury suite overlooking Beverly Hills, me in my old apartment, before Mom got sick.
The memory tugged not because of the silky fabric in my bag, but the conversation we’d shared that night. Philip had gone to LA to host potential business prospects at the Porsche Experience Center. Hearing him describe the challenging terrain and steep slopes, all at intense speeds in those teeny cars, made me skittish. “Isn’t there anything you’re afraid of?” I had asked, touching his face on my phone’s screen.
“It was exhilarating, Charley. The best rush out there.”
Philip’s zeal for life on the edge made sense. He’d buried two parents and understood loss. He was the kind of person who lived each moment like the last. It’s why he’d tracked me down after that first dinner. It’s why he always held me a little harder before saying goodbye.
But I was curious about my new boyfriend, mesmerized by the experiences that made him who he was. “There has to be something,” I’d said. “Something you’re afraid of.”
“I love that you’re curious, Charley. I love that you ask the tricky questions.”
“It’s not a tricky question.”
“This may sound a tad strange,” he’d replied, turning the phone away so I couldn’t see his face, pointing the camera on the city lights.
“Tell me.”
He’d returned to the screen looking boyish and shy. “I have basophobia.”
“Is this one of your jokes, Philip?”
Suddenly his eyes had looked serious and hurt. “No, Charley. It’s not a joke.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s the fear of falling.”
“The fear of falling? I don’t understand.”
“It’s serious. I’m afraid to fall.”
“I don’t get it. Like fall off a roof? A flight of stairs?”
He’d pouted through the phone and said he didn’t like to lose control, that he was afraid to slip, to have others watch.
“I’ve never heard of anything like that . . .”
“Roller coasters. I don’t like the way they drop. That nauseous feeling in your stomach . . . you know what that is, don’t you? It’s your organs moving.”
I didn’t know that. “Really, Philip? That’s your big fear?”
It had become one of our first arguments.
“You asked me what I feared, Charley. Don’t be so flippant. A fear is a fear precisely because of its irrationality.”
He lowered his head until he disappeared from the screen. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It seems odd, that’s all. Uncharacteristic of you, I guess.”
He returned to the phone, and I could tell I’d upset him. “You asked me a question, Charlotte. I gave you my answer. You have a lot of life yet to live.” It was one of the few times he’d referenced our age difference.
The queasiness found me again, rousing me from the memory, and I knew I’d require additional treatment when we returned. I asked Pete to turn the air down, crack the windows. Then I reached for my phone and tapped on the calendar, a strange foreboding coming over me. I mouthed the numbers to myself. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. I stopped at forty, not needing to count any further. I was over twelve days late. If I wasn’t already feeling sick, the realization would have been enough for me to break into a sweat.
Philip and I had touched on the subject of kids. It was an expectation of those in love, though we were satisfied being two. For a time, my students were my children, and our conversations on the subject were hypothetical, far-off plans we’d return to later. We were hardly traditional—our lives and lifestyle—but I stopped myself from continuing. These were the excuses I’d been rehearsing in my head, and taking them out and plucking their strings felt different this time. Maybe I wanted my own kids after all. Maybe before I wasn’t ready, not over my own father’s abandonment. And maybe, that is why Philip being gone so much was suddenly so upsetting.
We reached the hotel in a trail of heavy traffic. I was tired from a continuum of thoughts, what I suspected could be newly formed life. The suite was spacious, with a view of the bay, and I told myself it would be a short nap.
I didn’t hear him come in. I felt the silky bottom of my gown against my thigh. He was lifting it up, the soft fabric barely a tickle. His lips were climbing up my leg until I jostled awake.
The clock said it was close to nine. I’d been asleep an hour, though it felt a lot longer. “I’m hungry,” he said, nuzzling my neck and curling around me. His hands found my belly, the sensation quieting the clattering thoughts. Maybe this explained my recent moodiness, the weepiness that crept up and left me hungry for something I didn’t recognize. We sat like that, his warmth coating me, and I let go of the worry. I wanted him to touch me. I needed to feel close.
Turning toward him, I noticed his eyes were closed, and a gentle sleep had taken over. “Oh Philip,” I whispered. “You work too hard.” Gazing down at his peaceful face, I stroked his cheeks with my fingertips. His eyes fluttered open. “I’m starving,” he said again. I was hungry, too, though a different kind of hunger.
Miami didn’t come to life until well after dark, so we were right on time when we hopped in the car and headed to the Fontainebleau. Philip’s pants were baggy in the bottom, and I grabbed his bum in my palm. “Maybe we can go shopping for you tomorrow. Get you some pants that fit.” He laughed, proud of his trim figure.
Our table at Hakkasan was tucked in a back corner. The restaurant was noisy and dark, and the waiter greeted us warmly before offering us drin
ks.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“What is it, darling?”
Maybe this would change things. Maybe he’d understand the depth of my emotions, our commitment. There was a flicker in his eyes when I said, “I’m late,” but it faded quickly.
Pausing, he took a swig of his drink, and though he tried to disguise his reaction, I saw the way he refused to look at me, how his lips pursed. “What are you saying, Charley?”
“I’m not sure,” I stammered, trying my best to catch his eyes. “I’m late, and I’ve been feeling a little sick . . . I have to take a test.”
He should have grabbed me in his arms and flung me in the air. That’s what men do when the women they love announce they’re with child. This news stumped him. Finishing off his drink, he quickly ordered another one, and the moment dissolved inside the teak walls. The joy and jubilation that should have brought us closer wedged an unforgivable space between us.
“We’ll have to celebrate,” he finally said, though it was already too late. I’d seen his mood shift. It was there on his face. I was beginning to think coming here was all a big mistake.
“You seem upset,” I said.
He loosened his tie and trained his eyes on mine. “Having a baby girl who looks like you, Charley? What more could a man want?”
His expression told me he meant it, a deep sincerity that reached inside us. He inched his chair closer to mine, and I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “And if it’s a boy?” I asked.
“We’ll just keep trying.”
It wasn’t the response I’d expected, but I pushed the doubt aside and took pleasure in his embrace. He’d come around. He’d have to. Having a baby would make us a real family, something neither of us had had before. Having a baby would bind us together for eternity.
We dined on lobster dumplings and Peking duck, but Philip was quiet and faraway. Was I being paranoid for thinking he seemed sad? That he seemed distracted and a little lost?
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